A Change of Plans
by Abagail Snow
Summary: Spencer's challenge to a game of strip decathlon with Andrew goes uninterrupted. Set during "What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted"


_So I don't generally write PLL fanfic, and I know that Andrew has been on the show for a hot minute, and he'll probably be super evil or something without warning. But I REALLY liked that strip decathlon scene, and wanted to play around with the idea of Emily not walking in when she did._

* * *

Spencer extended the pad of questions across the coffee table and waited for Andrew to accept it. He scanned over the questions briefly, a smile tugging at his mouth when he read the next question.

"A nation does not have to be cruel to be tough," he read off the page.

She narrowed her eyes at him, shaking her head knowingly. "Haha," she said with a cavalier grin. "_That's_ Winston Churchill."

"FDR, actually," he said, tossing the questions back to her.

She frowned, looking him over tentatively, before she relented at being wrong. Straightening her posture, her fingers ghosted beneath the edge of her tee shirt.

Andrew shifted anxiously on the sofa, his eyes widening as they flitted between the path of her fingers and what was hidden beneath the thin cotton material. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he became acutely aware of the rise and fall of his chest with each eager breath that he took.

Spencer let her fingers linger beneath the hem of her shirt for another moment with faint amusement painted across her features. She stood abruptly, then, pulling on the drawstring of her sweatpants to push them from her hips and allowing them to pool at her feet. Stepping out of them, she hooked her foot beneath the waistband and flicked it quickly to hurdle the sweatpants in his direction.

He batted them away quickly, his gaze drinking in the expanse of newly exposed skin. She picked up the notebook to ask the next question and he answered it easily. Letting out an annoyed huff, she paced it back to him.

The next question didn't seem too difficult, but as he inspected what was left to be parted – him a flimsy pair of boxer shorts, and her a loose tee shirt and a pair of panties, suddenly he became _very_ aware of what was at stake.

"Um," he said, unable to look up from the page. "Is this? Are we actually going to..."

"Get naked?" she filled in. "That was the plan, yes." She leaned forward with her elbows resting on her thighs. "You're not going soft on me, are you?"

"Huh? What? No," he said, blinking rapidly. "I just... you've proven your qualifications, all right?"

"No," she said sternly, staring him down. "I prove my qualifications when I have you bare assed on the sofa. What's wrong, Andrew?" She cocked her head to the side and let her eyes drop to his boxer shorts. "You hiding something in there?"

"No!" He shifted quickly and folded his hands in his lap to hide the bulge that grew on its own accord. "I mean yes... I mean..." he sighed heavily and bowed his head. When he lifted his blue eyes to meet hers, his cheeks were flushed. A rosy color that licked down his neck and darkened the center of his bare chest. "You're obviously going through _something_ right now. Missing school? Flaking on decathlon practices? This thing with Mona? That's not usual Spencer Hastings behavior. Spencer Hastings doesn't let anyone best her. I don't know," he chuckled sheepishly. "I kind of feel like a creep right now, drooling at the idea of _looking_ at you." He gestured at the level of her chest.

"I don't care if you see my breasts," she nearly scoffed. She puckered her lips, her eyes lighting up at the thought. "You've _seen_ breasts before, right?"

"Of course," he said quickly.

"Playboy? Hustler? Give me a point of reference so I know what I'm competing with."

"They were _real_."

She tapped her finger against her chin. "Well that certainly eliminates a lot of options."

"No. Well, both. Real life," he said, and lifted his hands to make a squeezing motion.

"So that's how Mona got me kicked off the team," she said wryly.

"Hardly," he said weakly, picking at a loose thread along the seam of the chaise. "Fine." He lifted the notebook and read the last question.

"1866," she replied, almost annoyed by its ease. She held out her hand expectantly and waited for him to pass the list of questions to her.

Andrew flipped the page over, narrowing his eyes as he skimmed the blank side. "That was the last question."

She snatched the notebook back and briskly flipped through the pages. They had been using the practice exam questions, which was just a compilation of review questions from the end of each chapter. Had they really gone through all 100 questions already?

Spencer stood from the couch and placed her hands on her hips, a new idea already bubbling in the back of her mind. She clearly had the advantage in this game – two articles of clothing to one. But that wasn't the only apparent advantage she had over Andrew Campbell.

"Okay," she said. "Change of rules. Sudden death. Next person to answer a question incorrectly, loses."

"There aren't any questions left," he reminded her. Already he was eying her with some amount of hesitation, his heel bouncing against the floor that reverberated up through his knees.

"Then we'll make some up," she said, sauntering closer to perch herself on the edge of the coffee table. "How about we test ourselves on something else. Anatomy and physiology, maybe?" Her gaze dipped to admire him for a brief moment. "We're already dressed for it."

"That's not a category," he said evenly, but it was obvious from his stance that his resolve was crumbling fast.

"Let's make it one," she shrugged, her smirk a challenge. "I name a muscle and you find it. On me."

"T-t-touch you?" he stumbled over his words. "You want me to touch you?"

She slid closer to him until their knees were touching. Her legs parted slightly when she leaned back on her hands, resting on the coffee table behind her. "Only if you know where to find what I'm looking for."

His eyes widened, flitting to the juncture of her thighs before holding her gaze again. He swallowed thickly. "This seems like a bad idea."

"You going to let me win that easily? You know I don't like that." She crossed one leg over the other and sat forward. "I'll even let you go first, if you're so scared."

He shook his head with a nervous chuckle, his eyes jumping from his hands in his lap and then back to her. He let out a resigned sigh. "Brachio-radialis," he said.

Spencer rolled her eyes and reached out to take his hand into her lap. With his palm facing upward, she ran her finger up the outside of his forearm.

"Gastrocnemius," she rebutted.

He scooped up her foot that dangled in the air, and ran his hand up the back of her calf.

"Deltoid."

She touched the slant between his neck and shoulder. She pinched it between her fingers, and hummed with approval when she felt it flex. "Not bad," she said, clearing her suddenly tightened throat.

"Your turn," he said, glancing with amusement at where her hand lingered on his shoulder.

She rose to the challenge, planting both feet on the ground and straightening her back. "Gracilis."

His jaw slackened and the edges of his ears turned pink. "Jesus," he muttered, his round eyes focusing on something far away, across the room. He pressed his lips together so tightly that the pink seam vanished.

Holding his breath, he tipped her knees apart with his pointer finger, and glided it up the inside of her thigh.

"Oh?" escaped her in a passing breath, and she covered her mouth in surprise, quickly snapping her legs shut to trap his hand between her. "Sorry," she laughed nervously. "You're good at that."

"Thanks," he said sheepishly, smoothing his palm against his boxer shorts. "Um." He tapped his finger against his leg. "Serratus anterior."

She splayed her fingers along his ribcage and stroked inward. Her hands remained on his chest, every muscle tightening beneath her touch. Her lips parted. "Orbicularis oris," she said, her voice barely breaking a whisper.

And then there was pressure on her lips, but it wasn't from the pad of his fingers. No. He was kissing her. She blinked in startle, then her eyes slipped shut at the firm heat against her mouth. It wasn't unpleasant, she decided, her lips parting to grant him access.

Her fingers curled to scrape her nails across his skin, and he pushed forward on the sofa to kiss her more deeply.

But she couldn't think about kissing him. She could only think about Toby. Toby, who she loved. Who she allowed herself to be vulnerable with. What was she doing? Was this revenge? Was this setting herself up for another mistake?

Something about the way her body was reacting. She liked it too much.

She groaned, but it was not one of pleasure. "No, nope," she said, abruptly pushing him away. "This isn't happening."

Andrew looked mortified. His mouth red and swollen from their kiss. "Um, sorry? Was I not supposed to do that?"

"No!" she shouted, incredulous.

"I thought... sorry. I won't do it again, I swear," he said.

"Damn straight you're not," she said, standing to her feet and pulling him after her. "You're leaving," she said, ushering him towards the door.

"Wait. I'm confused. Did I win?" He stumbled after her looking perplexed.

"You certainly won something." She patted her hand against his bare chest, retracting it as if she had been stung. This was so wrong.

He stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowing in confusion as he tried to keep up with what was happening. "Does this mean you don't want back on the team anymore?"

"I'll find another way." She opened the front door. "You just. You need to leave. Right now." She pushed him through the doorway and he tripped over the front steps.

"But, my clothes?" he said, gesturing at his nearly naked body.

Spencer briskly gathered his pile of clothing into her arms and tossed them out the door to land in a heap at his feet.

She slammed the door shut and collapsed against it with heavy breaths.

This was a bad idea.


End file.
